


A Dark and Stormy Night

by Semianonymity



Series: Werewolves [1]
Category: Toriko (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Gen, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 09:16:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15385599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semianonymity/pseuds/Semianonymity
Summary: On a miserable winter day, when Komatsu's restaurant is between the lunch and dinner rushes, a very strange stranger walks in and orders the entire menu, and then eats it.Komatsu's day goes downhill from there.





	A Dark and Stormy Night

**Author's Note:**

> This is the 4th work written in the Werewolf AU, and the first work chronologically! As a reminder, I am not writing this series in order. For those wondering, there are a number of other fics planned from various points in the timeline.

It was slow in the restaurant, even by off-season Tuesday standards, a small smattering of lunch dates and a few business lunches, all gone by two in the afternoon and no one taking their place. It wasn’t unusual, especially for gray days in February, when the drizzle wasn’t actually freezing but felt cold as ice against the skin. Nobody visited from out of town for weather like that, and the locals mostly kept indoors unless absolutely necessary. Even the dogs hurried on their walks, eager to get back inside, and even the hardiest shrubs were start to look cold-burned and battered by the weather.

The Hotel Gourmet - hotel long since gone out of business, but the building still there, the restaurant that had taken over the ground floor carrying on the name - was a steamy, fragrant oasis from the cold, and the premature night that was threatening to settle even though it was only midafternoon. With the dining room empty and likely to remain that way for a few hours, the formal air had lifted, replaced with comfortable, subdued conversation, the skeleton staff left with nothing left to do for once. 

The Hotel Gourmet wasn't the best-known restaurant, but it was a labor of love, and slowly gathering a reputation under Komatsu's guidance. That didn't mean that there was enough business to keep it permanently busy, especially mid-afternoon.

When the door was pushed open, it did attract attention, but not much, a server casually slipping wrapped silverware back into the basket, whisking all the evidence away to the back. Just like that, it was all business again.

"Welcome to the Hotel Gourmet," the hostess began, looking up--then up further. The man in the door was a giant, ducking to get through even the oversized main entrance, all muscle and a grin that was almost feral.

She swallowed, and then rallied. "How many in your party?"

"One," the man said, easy-going, rolling his shoulders back and shaking sleet off his head, the last few drips of water. He was wearing a leather jacket, but not enough of one to compensate for the awful weather, and the shirt he had on underneath was just a short-sleeved t-shirt, almost garishly orange in the warm light of the dining room, shocking against his blue hair.

Not the usual sort of customer they got in the Hotel Gourmet, but Komatsu had policies, of course, and expectations. Everyone that stepped through the door was treated with equal respect. There was no dress code (even if there were recommendations), and everyone there for a fancy anniversary dinner or an important business deal had to accept that even though it was a fine dining restaurant, not everyone would be wearing clothes expected in that setting.

"One, but I'm going to need a big table. To fit all the food," he explained casually.

"Oh--of course, sir," she said, and tried to shake off her sudden unease--and the inexplicable sensation that she was being sized up by a predator and being dismissed out of hand, as unimportant, not a threat--not worth eating?

That didn't make any sense, and she loved sensible things, logic, the nice neat rules by which society operated, and she ignored it. But she felt like a scared rabbit, for no reason she could ascertain other than the fact that the perfectly nice if slightly odd patron was physically huge, not even his body language particularly threatening, and that was almost worse.

There was no one else in the restaurant, so she led him over to a four-top, then followed in his wake when he kept on moving right past her, settling on a large table close to the kitchens.

Water in his glass, the other settings bustled away, and he wasn't big enough to make the table look small, he really _wasn't_ , but it still felt like he was looming anyway.

She provided him with a menu, and he looked it over quickly, clearly only cursorily interested.

"I'll have one of everything," he said, draining the water glass, and she winced.

"Yes, of course--just a moment, sir, let me get my manager," she said, and she fled. She wasn’t paid enough for this.

“Or anything else, as long as it’s good!” he called after her.

\------

The manager was produced, and the maitre’d, and finally Komatsu as well, blinking confusedly as he took in the scene taking place.

Trying to ascertain whether or not a customer could pay or not wasn’t exactly standard for a restaurant, but nobody had ever asked for _the whole menu_ before.

“As much food as you can,” the guest had clarified. Unhelpfully.

He had produced an ID--Toriko, blue hair and brightly neutral expression and all--and a credit card, the sort of aggressively plain one that screamed money. It matched the ID. It wasn’t declined, wasn’t even declined after they rang up--sure enough--one of everything on the menu, with a 15% gratuity added on because even though it wasn’t a party larger than 6, he was certainly ordering for more people than that.

When asked about adding the gratuity, he shrugged.

And they started cooking, the kitchen weirdly subdued. Because it felt like the other shoe had to drop, that there had to be something wrong, because the whole thing just didn’t make _sense_.

And it made less sense once he started eating. And _eating._ No real rhyme or reason to his food choices, except what was closest--after the first few dishes were inhaled, the wait staff--clearly more than a little unnerved--just told the kitchen not to worry about order, just to cook _more_.

His manners were--inhuman, but not awful, and frighteningly efficient.

Two hours in, one of the wait staff threatened to quit, and got moved to the dishwashing station instead. They needed the extra help there, anyway, even if they probably needed another waiter more.

Half an hour after that, the strange guest not even slowing down, they started on a second repetition of the entire menu, and started improvising with the ingredients on hand upon request.

Another forty-five minutes, and they flipped the restaurant sign on the door to closed, and called all the dinner reservations to cancel, because they were running short on food. The manager settled on “supply problems” as an excuse. Despite the awful weather, the back door was cracked oven, a desperate attempt to let in some--any--cool air, because every oven and burner was on full bore and had been since Toriko had appeared. The staff were working full-tilt, the waiters and servers run ragged even with a single guest, and the utter unbelievability of the scene made the whole thing feel like some kind of absurd nightmare.

Six hours after entering the restaurant, Toriko paid the remainder of his bill--he’d eaten significantly more than just the entire menu--and left, leaving behind a surprisingly neat table, stacks of dishes cleaned, sometimes literally _licked_ clean, of any scrap of food, and a restaurant full of people ranging from stunned to hysterical to disbelieving.

After the dishes were done, the manager departing a little hysterically to see how quickly he could get the restaurant re-supplied, Komatsu sent the rest of the staff home, ordered in take-out, and set to cleaning the kitchen. Normally, it was a cooperative effort at the end of the night, but there hadn’t been a thing normal about lunch service that day.

It was a very early night by restaurant standards, not even 11 pm when Komatsu was finished wiping, sanitizing, mopping and polishing everything in the kitchen. He was still absolutely exhausted; the kitchen had produced more in an afternoon than they would have in three busy ( _normally_ busy) days.

And the man had ate and ate and _ate_ , far beyond the limits of what was human. He wasn’t a restaurant critic, ordering a selection of dishes and trying a bite or two from each one; he’d been frighteningly efficient at consuming everything that had been put in front of him, at a terrifying rate of speed.

Double-checking the doors were locked and the lights off, Komatsu left out the back door. He lived upstairs, in one of the converted apartments, part of the remodel that had ended the building’s life as a hotel. Maybe it was a little too much like bringing his work home with him, but on the other hand, the restaurant was his _life_. He knew chefs and other restaurant staff; most of his socializing was quiet nights, after hours, or checking out the competition. He _liked_ living close.

The alley was normally comforting; he mostly knew the vagrants who stopped by, the alley cats he not-so-secretly fed. But tonight, the darkness was filled with a sense of threat, of something inhuman hiding, lying in wait. The streetlight wasn’t any dimmer, the shadows any heavier, but the urgent sense of being _prey_ itched at his shoulder blades, left him feeling like a hunted rabbit.

The door was locked, the restaurant closed. It was probably just the oddness of the afternoon, Komatsu told himself. Just the strangeness of closing up alone in the early evening.

There was a terrible rumbling growl, and then a dog--a _wolf_ \--something bigger than any canine Komatsu had ever heard of--was lunging past him, meeting another oversized wolf--dog-- _monster_ teeth-first, canines bared in an awful snarl, claws slashing. The sound was horrible, worse than any dog fight Komatsu had ever heard, something almost _human_ in the wordless, furious noise.

Komatsu stumbled back, fumbled for his key--dropped it--scrabbled at the door, desperately, he was _helpless_ here, the door alone wouldn’t be anywhere near enough protection--

One of them, the bigger one, black except for the garish spatter of blood, lunged at Komatsu. Komatsu couldn’t react quickly enough; by the time he was screaming and ducking away, the wolf-monster had already been bitten by the other one, gray-brown-black wolf-patterned, shaking viciously before the black one got away.

The gray one was _protecting him_ , Komatsu thought, dazed. Another two or three attempts from the black wolf, aimed mostly at the other monster with Komatsu a secondary target, all of them rebuffed, and then, finally, the black one turned and ran, still snarling, leaving bloody footprints to be washed away by the rain.

The other monster seemed to almost collapse, growl turning into a pained whine. His fur was stained with blood, diluted with icy rain, smears of dirt indistinguishable from gore where they mingled in the dim lighting.

And then he turned into a human, a man, oversized just like the wolf had been oversized, and naked, covered in injuries more obvious without the disguise of fur. The transformation was swift but brutal, skin bulging where the bones and muscle shifted underneath it, fur disappearing in a eye-watering shift in reality, something Komatsu couldn’t quite follow but interpreted as not disappearing but _unmaking_.

It was the stranger from the restaurant, Komatsu thought, hysterical. Toriko, his ID had said. The garish orange shirt was gone, but the blue hair was still there, stained with blood in a few spots. Was he hallucinating? None of this could be _real_ , but his kitchen was out of food, and the sleet was stinging against his exposed skin, and there was blood splashed on one hand, going cold where it had been burning hot.

“You’re the chef,” the man--monster-- _werewolf?_ \--said, like that _made sense_. “Everything was _delicious,_ ” he added, almost dreamily.

Komatsu muffled a scream, his heart beating so hard it hurt.

“I would _never_ hurt someone who cooked like that for me,” Toriko added, and he--smiled? Maybe? Or bared his fangs. His teeth were very white, his canines very sharp. “Too bad that guy figured it out. Probably thought attacking you would distract me enough for him to win.” And that--that did look like a smile, but it was predatory, fierce and _sharp_. And terrifying.

“...what?” Komatsu managed to squeak out.

The stranger--Toriko--the _monster_ \--hauled himself to his feet, wincing as one leg threatened to buckle for a moment, bracing himself against the rough brick wall of the alley. He looked like he was a mile long, all muscle. There were still a pair of gray-white-black ears poking through his hair, an odd bulkiness to his hands, his fingers tipped with claws too long and thick and sharp to pass as human.

One of the ears flicked.

“Do you have anything to eat?” Toriko asked, after an interminable silence.

“ _You ate everything_ ,” Komatsu said, voice high-pitched and ridiculous and more than a little hysterical. “All I have left is--”

He was cut off by the rising wail of sirens, and then a wolf’s howl, maybe a few blocks over but the buildings and streets made it unclear.

Toriko frowned, and Komatsu fought the urge to whimper, and failed.

“Keys,” Komatsu muttered--he couldn’t talk to the police, because this sounded _crazy_ , even if they were already on the lookout for a monster wolf, he just needed to get back upstairs, into his cozy apartment, comfortable and locked away.

Toriko stooped, it looked painful, and--picked up his key? It was bloody and cold enough that it hurt to touch, as Toriko passed it over to him.

“Thank you?” Komatsu muttered.

The sirens were getting closer. Automatically, Komatsu turned towards his door, fumbled with the lock--just barely kept from dropping it again--and then managed to pull it open.

Toriko was watching him, not moving. When he caught Komatsu’s eye, his grin widened a bit, and he pushed away from the wall--Komatsu was uncomfortably aware that he was naked, and that Toriko was _very_ muscular, that his ass was--hah--superhuman, and also close to head height on him. He’d wondered how a person could be so _big_ \--it turned out the secret was not being human.

“Come on,” Komatsu said, a little desperately. The werewolf--maybe? Wolf monster?--didn’t move, but one ear flicked. Komatsu gestured at him, pointed a little stupidly up the stairs that led to Komatsu’s apartment.

“Okay,” Toriko said, even though his expression was asking a dubious _are you really sure?_ He limped painfully forward--Komatsu would have reached out to help support him, but he was still afraid, and in all honesty, he couldn’t have done a thing to help him, not with the size he was, the size Toriko was.

Komatsu held the door until Toriko could reach it, but he went up the stairs first, the back of his neck prickling with the uncomfortable awareness that there was a monster behind him, and Komatsu was nothing but prey. It was better than staring at his naked body, Komatsu thought, distinctly hysterical now. Toriko didn’t seem to mind his nudity.

After wrestling with his key and a growing sense of disassociation, his front door slammed shut behind them with disturbing finality.

Komatsu slipped off his shoes automatically, hung his jacket from a coat, peeked at Toriko’s unclad, dirt-and-blood stained feet and winced. “Please make yourself comfortable,” he said, automatically. “Um, can I get you some--”

“Food,” Toriko said, finishing the sentence for him eagerly.

“...bandages,” Komatsu managed.

“No, I’m fine,” Toriko said, cheerily--and, Komatsu thought, entirely unbelievably, because he was--

Not actually covered in wounds, anymore. The blood was still there, going tacky and dry, but the smallest injuries had healed over, and the largest looked--better.

“Okay,” Komatsu said. “That’s--okay. I um--food?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Toriko said, intense enough--hungry enough--that Komatsu shuddered. “...If you don’t mind,” he added, as if it was an afterthought. Like he was trying to be mannerly, while asking for food in a stranger’s house, while sheltering from the--police? Was Komatsu aiding a fugitive?--after getting into a supernatural fight with another wolf-monster in an alley. After eating a restaurant’s-worth of food.

“I won’t, um--I keep a lot less food in my apartment,” Komatsu said, not quite straightforward. He swallowed around a suddenly dry throat.

“Anything is fine,” Toriko said, eagerly. “...Or nothing. I mean, you already fed me today.” His smile was pearly, just a little bit too sharp-fanged, and stunningly genuine.

“And I can get you some clo--a sheet. I don’t have anything that’s going to fit you?”

“It’s fine,” Toriko said, easily.

“Sheet,” Komatsu said, a little desperately, and he turned--left a bloodied stranger almost too tall to fit into his living room standing there, naked, looking at a shelf of cookbooks interestedly--and went to put the kettle on and find a clean sheet.

Half an hour later, Toriko finishing off a tremendous omelette while wrapped, toga-style, in a bedsheet dotted with tiny sledding penguins, Komatsu didn’t feel any closer to sanity, but at least he had a hot cup of soup clutched between his hands, and he’d gotten the chance to sit down; his legs were aching, after pushing that hard in the kitchen all day.

“So I’m a werewolf,” Toriko said easily, finishing the last bite of what had been a full dozen eggs, and politely putting his plate in the sink, on the giant pile of other dishes he’d cleared. It was, at least, better than the aftermath of the restaurant debacle.

Komatsu coughed on a mouthful of miso, and just barely kept himself from spraying it across the table or out his nose.

 _“What?!_ ”

He almost followed it up with something stupid, like _werewolves aren’t real_ or _are you crazy_ , but. But he’d been there in the alley. And food had only made Toriko heal faster, his wounds sealing up seamlessly as he ate a scattered, thrown-together meal for ten.

And then there was the restaurant. No human had that kind of appetite. So--Toriko wasn’t human. Maybe that was normal for--for werewolves.

Komatsu had to physically bite his lip to keep back a hysterical giggle.

“And that guy, he’s pissy I’m passing through. It’s not _his_ territory, he doesn’t have the right, but I’m not with my pack right now and he probably thought I’d be an easy target.” Toriko shrugged, easily, and Komatsu nodded. Numbly.

“...who’s territory is it?” Komatsu had to ask. Because he hadn’t been aware that _territory_ was, really, a thing.

“In a town this big, the town center is neutral. _And_ even if it wasn’t, nobody’s marked any boundaries around here.”

 _By peeing on things?_ , Komatsu almost said out loud, before biting down, hard, on his tongue. Again.

“So you came to the restaurant, and he tracked you back here--”

“And then he saw you and figured it might give him an edge.” Toriko’s frown was honestly terrifying.

“... _werewolves_ ,” Komatsu repeated, numbly.

“Sorry,” Toriko added, a little regretfully.

“...It wasn’t actually your fault, was it? I mean--it’s a restaurant, you came to eat--”

“But you had to close early too, and now you’re really stressed out.”

Komatsu winced, but. Neither of those things were untrue.

“...but you still saved me. So, um, thank you--Toriko?”

“Toriko,” he repeated, a cheerful affirmation. “Thank you for the meal! Would you like your sheet back?”

“Um,” Komatsu said, eyeing the fabric now liberally covered with blood-- _werewolf blood_ \--and smeared dirt. “It’s fine, please feel free to keep it.”

Toriko looked at him, sharply, then shrugged. “Thank you! I’ll wash it and return it. It would have been harder to get back into the hotel naked, anyway. And thank you for the food.”

“You’re welcome,” Komatsu said automatically. “Um--are you--is it safe to leave? For you?”

“Yeah, absolutely,” Toriko said immediately. “That idiot won’t try anything, and even if he did, I’m stronger, especially without you to distract me. Just keep your doors locked tonight.”

“Okay,” Komatsu said, with the distinct feeling that locked doors wouldn’t actually _matter_ to a determined-enough werewolf. It was mostly pushed aside by the persistent image of Toriko attempting to check back into his hotel while wrapped in a bloody towel covered in penguins. “...Are you sure you’ll be fine?”

“...Yeah,” Toriko said, slowly, looking him over. “I will. Thanks for asking.”

“Sorry about the clothes,” Komatsu said, again, following in Toriko’s wake as they made their way over to the doorway, and Toriko bobbed through it, pulling the door firmly shut behind him, just a little too much force, the noise a little loud. Komatsu winced--Violet belowstairs could be a light sleeper--and locked the door automatically.

Then he took a long, hot shower, cried hysterically, drank a big glass of cool water to fight the ensuing headache, and went to bed.

\----------------

The next morning he left early for the restaurant. Mostly so he could review the menu, make any necessary changes based off of ingredients that hadn’t been replaced yet or were unavailable, but also so he could pause in the alleyway.

There were claw marks in the cobblestones, gouged deeper than anything natural could do, and blood still spattered on the walls, where the driving rain hadn’t been able to wash it away..

A little dizzy, Komatsu pushed in the double doors, and got ready to work.

\-----------------

A week and a half later, Komatsu was curled up on the couch. It was late evening, he was flipping through a magazine, the TV a comforting drone in the dim light, and the silence was shattered by three loud knocks on the front door, firm and booming.

Komatsu almost dropped his mug of tea.

He couldn’t help the sudden uptick of his heartbeat, the same nervous reaction he’d had to almost anything out of the ordinary all week, even if the closest he’d come to a _supernatural experience_ was a particularly persistent pigeon.

Still, he was nervous as he approached the door, going on tiptoe to peer out the peephole at--

Someone’s chest, in a shirt a familiar shade of horrendous orange, much higher than anyone’s chest had any business being.

Komatsu hesitated for one wild heartbeat, another, another, before finally flipping the latch, pulling the door open.

“Hi,” Toriko said. “I brought your sheet back!”

“Thank you,” Komatsu said, automatically, stepping away from the door to let the other man--the _werewolf_ \--in. It had, he thought with a sort of numb relief, been washed. The bloodstains hadn’t come out, but they were certainly better. Komatsu didn’t think he was ever going to use them again, either way.

Toriko was both more and less intimidating when he was wearing clothes.

“Let me get you something to eat,” Komatsu found himself saying, not so much out of conscious decision as instinct, and the gut-deep surety that Toriko would love anything he gave him, and love it _honestly_. It was a very seductive thing, for a chef like Komatsu.

And he’d baked cookies earlier that day. “I have cookies,” he added, and the way Toriko’s eyes brightened was--wonderful, really, enough to make him smile, deep and automatic.

Monster or not, Toriko almost melted at the first bite of just-cooled shortbread, baked twice for perfect flakey, delicate crispness, and flavored with vanilla bean.

“You don’t have to cook anything for me,” Toriko added, after he’d finished off the plate of shortbread. ...Except for the piece he’d left for Komatsu. Komatsu, already poking through his fridge, had to look up at that.

“But--would you like me to?” he asked, automatically, a little confused.

“Yes,” Toriko said, more than a hint of _duh, **obviously**_ in his voice.

“I’d like to, then,” Komatsu decided. “So, um--you obviously eat more than a human, is that, um--typical? For werewolves?”

He _liked_ the werewolf, he thought. He was strange, dangerous, a little too much, but he loved food as ardently as Komatsu did, and thought that Komatsu’s cooking was exceptional. It was _hard_ to dislike someone who liked your food that much.

“Yes,” Toriko said, eyeing him with a certain amount of confusion. “I might be a little extreme,” he added. “I _like_ food. Technically I could just eat meat most of the time--deer, elk, rabbits--but that’s boring, raw or cooked. Restaurants are much more satisfying, when they’re good.”

“...Do you normally eat a whole restaurant to close?” Komatsu had to ask, a sandwich--thick rye bread, cream cheese quickly mixed with fresh herbs, smoked salmon, cucumbers--going in front of Toriko, another one in progress.

“Not always,” Toriko said, sandwich disappearing promptly. It was replaced with one layered in paper-thin slices of cucumber, radish and sweet onion, on top of a thick layer of butter. “But I knew yours would be good by the smells. Technically I’m supposed to stay hidden--”

“That was hidden,” Komatsu said, a little stunned.

“Kind of,” Toriko said with a shrug. “There wasn’t anyone else there.”

“And you _smelled_ that it would be good?”

“I could name everything you cooked with today,” Toriko said cheerily. “By the smell on your hands and clothes.”

“I washed them--”

Toriko smiled at him, and the look on his face reminded Komatsu that, yes, he wasn’t human; it was _wild_ , not feral--because feral implied previous domestication.

Komatsu was abruptly aware that he was sharing a kitchen with a predator. _I could mostly live off meat, deer and elk_ , Toriko had said. Meat caught with tooth and claw, eaten raw, like a wolf would eat? Toriko could clearly eat like a human--pate, chocolate pudding, cacio e pepe--but that didn’t mean he didn’t eat like a wolf, too.

“I can smell your fear,” Toriko added, off-handedly, which didn’t help at _all._ Komatsu felt himself go stiff, eyes darting a look at the kitchen door--but he really didn’t think he could escape, if Toriko decided to stop him. “Don’t worry, though, I’m not going to--do anything. You’ve been--nicer than you needed to be, really.”

“You’re nice to cook for,” Komatsu said, honestly. Maybe not the full truth, but it was still _true_. “And you did protect me. Even if we had to cancel a few reservations later on because everything was eaten--that’s bad for our reputation, I guess, but the profits from your, ah, visit were _incredible_. Unbelievable, really, one of the restaurant owners actually called in asking if there’d been a mistake, or if the software had glitched.”

Toriko smiled, a glint of too-sharp teeth.

Komatsu put a dish of delicate angel-hair pasta tangled with sharp arugula and sweet plump peas, olive oil and shaved pecorino romano cheese in front of him. Another vegetarian dish, he thought, distantly. He should probably cook something with meat. For the werewolf.

There was a whole chicken in the fridge, and he briefly thought about roasting it whole, but--cooking time. Instead, it was quickly and neatly disjointed, while the pan was heating, and patted dry, then thrown into the hot pan with a hiss and spatter; oven preheating, shallots and lemon and capers for the sauce, and a glass of wine.

Toriko was handed another glass of wine, while he was at it, and then an omelet. Omelet wasn’t a match for anything else he was cooking, but that was what it was.

It was so easy to fall into the rhythm of a busy kitchen.

“You can rest,” Toriko said, finally, as Komatsu paused to collect an armful of dishes, deposited them into the sink. He looked just slightly concerned.

“I’m used to long days,” Komatsu said, slowly, letting himself slow, stop. It was part an explanation, part excuse, part reassurance. He was sweating, tired, but it was also--good. He liked cooking in his own kitchen, liked this kind of informal meal, even if he normally paid a great deal more attention to how different elements between the dishes went with each other. Normally, he was cooking a lot less food, even if he had a bigger audience.

“...Not always as long as your first day in the restaurant,” Komatsu added, a little dryly, as he pulled up a chair, sat down. Toriko pushed over a plate with a little selection of treats on it, apparently culled from his own meal--the piece of shortbread, a little bit of cucumber salad, a homemade lamb sausage he’d pulled from the freezer, dried apricots.

It was a thoughtful, if slightly strange, gesture. But nothing about Toriko wasn’t strange, really. At least a little bit.

“What would make it easier next time?” Toriko asked, lazily, watching Komatsu take a bite.

Komatsu choked on the mouthful, almost inhaled it. “ _Next_ time?!” he sputtered.

“Yeah,” Toriko said, frowning suddenly. “...Can I?”

“You don’t really have to _ask_ to patronize a restaurant,” Komatsu said, slowly.

Toriko strugged. Apparently it still held.

“Advance warning would be nice,” Komatsu admitted, finally. “If you’re eating the entire menu. Maybe a restaurant buy-out for the day? Because I don’t think we could keep up with you and anyone else, too. But--Toriko, I thought you tried to stay under the radar? Hidden?”

“But I want to eat more of your food,” Toriko said, almost dreamily. Komatsu couldn’t fight down his blush, because--that really was the best compliment, no matter how strange the context. His cooking was the heart of him.

\----------------

“So, um, does everyone remember the day with the guest, ah, Toriko, who ate everything we had in the kitchen?”

Komatsu looked out over his stunned and suddenly wary kitchen staff. Someone actually _laughed_ ; it would be impossible to forget. Anyone who hadn’t been there had seen the aftermath, and heard about it multiple times. A busboy had _quit_.

Komatsu wasn’t sure what it said about his life that he had to bite his tongue to keep from blurting out “werewolf,” because that was just _a factor of his life,_ now. Werewolves existed, they got into _werewolf fights_ , they could eat a whole restaurant’s worth of food, they were--at least sometimes--easy-going despite their obviously predatory nature, and exuberantly omnivorous.

“...he, ah, likes our food, so we’ve arranged a restaurant buy-out for him this coming Tuesday…”

“ _Just_ for him?” someone asked.

“Do you think we could try and feed _two_ of them?” someone else said, horrified.

“...Yes, just him, and um, be prepared for a similar volume of food? Only a little more--under control then everything was that night. Hopefully. And we’re going to make sure we have enough to operate normally the next day. So, if you’re scheduled but you really object to working that night, please let me know?”

The kitchen dissolved into excited whispers and murmurs, louder questions, an undercurrent of stress.

Komatsu had had a werewolf visit him, and a werewolf ask for a full-night reservation of his entire restaurant, and everything the kitchen could produce at full production, and he’d said _alright_. Werewolves were real, and he’d hid one from the police after it had saved his life--been the reason he’d been endangered in the first place, in a way--and invited him back to his restaurant.

“Is this going to be a regular thing?” his manager asked, halfway between genuine concern and a calculated interest in their income generation.

“I--”

The question caught Komatsu off guard. He didn’t know, hadn’t really thought that far ahead.

“I don’t know,” he said finally.

\-------------

It wasn’t really a regular thing, Toriko buying out the restaurant for a night, but it kept on happening. The staff adjusted. Komatsu--adjusted.

Toriko would show up during the slow hours, ask to arrange a reservation sometime in the coming week, then trot back out the door, leaving whoever was in the restaurant--other than the staff--baffled as to how they could have missed the 7-foot-tall man with blue hair and a bodybuilder’s physique apparently living in the area.

The third dinner--or feast, really--Komatsu began to wonder what Toriko ate the rest of the time. Surely, he’d had heard of it before now if anything like this was happening at any of the other restaurants in the area--it wasn’t _that_ big a town, for one. And Toriko--wasn’t subtle.

The weather was starting to shade towards spring, the air still bitingly cold but tempered by the longer days, the promise of spring.The early crocus started to peek through the disappearing snow and thawing dirt.

Toriko’s fifth dinner at the Hotel Gourmet finished with late-winter pears poached in honey and spiced red wine, served with custard and delicate, lace-like honey almond cookies. There was bittersweet chocolate cake with a hint of espresso and raspberry filling, baklava scented with rosewater to accompany pistachio-rose ice cream, a huge tray of perfect bite-sized cream puffs filled with matcha whipped cream and topped with white chocolate glaze, cheesecake marbled with toffee and then enrobed in dark chocolate ganache.

The first time, Komatsu thought, looking at Toriko from the doorway between the kitchens and the dining floor, it had been far too chaotic to actually serve a proper meal. They had brought out food, but it hadn’t been in any kind of order, no attention had been paid to how different dishes would complement each other. It was different, cooking for him now. They could bring him _dessert_ , at the end, not just throw everything out as it was finished, haphazard.

Toriko looked up from the last plates, spotted Komatsu in the doorway, and lit up, beaming at him. Komatsu had to smile back; the expression was charming, even knowing that the man making it was a kind of monster. Even after overseeing the preparation of enough food to feed a hundred people go directly to him, and promptly be eaten.

Toriko was, also, just a person.

Komatsu crossed the dimly-lit dining room, stretching out his back with a sigh before sliding into an empty chair--did Toriko mind eating alone? He didn’t seem to, but…

“Thank you for the meal--it was as delicious as always,” Toriko said, leaning back with a beatific smile. 

“Of course!” Komatsu said, immediately. “You’re always welcome.” It was true, too. Everything else aside, Toriko was a wonderful customer, the best kind of person to cook for. ...And more than that, too, because Komatsu wouldn’t join any other customer at their table.

There was the distinct thumping noise of a dog--or wolf--tail thwapping against the furniture as it wagged. Komatsu blinked. Toriko laughed, just a little sheepish, and shifted in his seat; the noise disappeared, and--maybe his canines were a little duller, too.

“You’re not very subtle,” Komatsu found himself saying, the truth, but also not at all diplomatic.

He would have worried more but Toriko just laughed, clearly not offended in the least. It _was_ hard to argue with.

...It was also a decent segue into his earlier thought. “What do you eat the rest of the time?” Komatsu asked. “I haven’t heard anything from the other restaurant owners in town…”

“I eat out, but--less,” Toriko said, with a shrug. Then clarified: “Smaller quantities, not less often. Or I go hunting--there _used_ to be too many deer. But I don’t need to eat as much as I do here, it’s just--good.” He licked his lips, eyes half-shuttered, apparently with dreamy thoughts of finished dishes dancing through his head.

“...so the first time--”

“Normally, I’d head out pretty quickly after that. I do _try_ to keep a low profile--kind of. Mostly.” He shrugged again. “I don’t normally stick around this long.” He blinked, glancing over at Komatsu. “What?”

Komatsu realized he was frowning, and managed to school his expression into something less worried. “I mean--it’s wonderful having you here! But is it _safe_ for you to stay longer?”

“You already know, so I don’t have to worry about being suspicious to you,” Toriko said, something in his expression a little odd--surprised, maybe? Quietly pleased? “Worst-case scenario, I wait until dark and run out of town wolf-shaped. I’ve done it before.”

“Be careful?” Komatsu asked. “For your safety--but also, I’ll miss you, when you go.”

Toriko looked stunned, and Komatsu, pausing to draw in a breath, stopped short.

“...Why?” Toriko asked, finally, looking--confused, suspicious, hopeful.

“Why what? Why--why will I miss you? I mean, we’re--friends? I think it’s getting to be like that, but I understand if you don’t--if that’s too familiar. Either way, we see each other, and you like our food so much, it’s very gratifying.”

Toriko stayed silent, apparently stunned. Komatsu shifted, awkward awareness beginning to emerge.

“I, um. I’d like to get to know you better, if you wouldn’t mind. Would you like to come over for dinner one night?”

“I already do,” Toriko said, brow wrinkling in confusion.

“Hm? Oh--oh, no! I mean, to my house. I can cook dinner--not as much as here, but I’ll do my best--and we can talk.”

“You remember what I am,” Toriko said, not quite a question, but still someone searching for answers.

“...Yes?” It would be _hard to forget_.

Toriko stared another few moments, then looked away with a huff, a smile spreading across his handsome, feral face. “Yes,” he said, slowly. “I’d like that.”

Komatsu beamed at him, and he felt like the smile that Toriko gave him in return, while not as dazzling as some of his other smiles, had roots that ran much deeper.

\---------------------------

With Toriko coming over for dinner--or brunch, or lunch--at least once a week, and at the restaurant once or twice a month, Komatsu realized that he saw him more often than he saw anyone else who wasn’t a staff member.

He didn’t quite know what to do with that. Because Toriko--was still occasionally wild enough to be unnerving, and he was a _werewolf_ , and Komatsu still didn’t know a lot about him, but--but he was also funny, enthusiastic, and absolutely in love with Komatsu’s cooking. He wouldn’t or couldn’t do a good job of passing as a normal human being, didn’t seem to have any real preferences for food except for _as much as possible_ , and he also--Komatsu thought--he was also kind of lonely.

They were relaxing with cups of tea after breakfast, a several-hour-long affair that had left the house steamy and too hot, until Komatsu had pushed the windows open to let in the clear spring air, still a little frosty but mostly starting to smell of tender green growing things, the promise of rich wet earth. Komatsu was in his favorite chair, Toriko sprawled comfortably over the whole of the couch, practically radiating lazy contentment, loose and relaxed in a way that Komatsu knew was new, something that had developed over the past months.

It was at least in part because Komatsu knew about Toriko, so he _could_ keep his ears wolf-shaped, twitching occasionally at sounds Komatsu couldn’t even guess at, his feet more like paws, eyes alert and lupine even as he sprawled out like, well, like a contented cat, the picture of pure hedonistic pleasure. And--it meant something, Komatsu thought, that he could offer that little bit of comfort, a place where Toriko felt _comfortable_.

The breeze through the window was picking up, and Komatsu was cooling down now that he was out of the kitchen. He shivered briefly, uncomfortably chilled but not quite cold enough--and too comfortably tucked into his chair--to get up and close the window immediately.

Before Komatsu could muster the energy to get moving, too sunk in peaceful morning languor, Toriko stretched hugely and jumped to his feet, one smooth athletic movement, padding over to the window to pull it closed. ---his gait was odd, like this, his feet and legs not quite traditionally bipedal, Toriko making it work anyway.

On the way back--avoiding Komatsu’s eyes--Toriko grabbed the blanket off the back of the couch and tossed it at Komatsu before sinking back down onto the cushions. Toriko busied himself with his tea, leaving Komatsu to blink in confusion, half-covered in his couch throw.

It had to be for Komatsu’s benefit; Toriko seemed impervious to cold, his metabolism a furnace. Who knew what temperatures a werewolf considered comfortable? --Well, Komatsu now, at least a little - and Toriko seemed just fine at temperatures where Komatsu would be facing hypothermia. Toriko was just fine _without_ a coat, because Toriko really was absolutely terrible at looking or acting like a normal human.

It was--thoughtful. _Sweet_. Komatsu knew he was smiling a little wider than was really--normal, or appropriate, for the situation. But Toriko was in his house a _lot_ , and Komatsu knew Toriko loved his cooking, and at least didn’t mind his company, but--he also never really knew what Toriko thought of him.

Komatsu pulled the blanket over his shoulders, relaxed into comforting softness, and the old familiarity of someone looking after him--so old it almost felt new. It had been a while.

He didn’t miss the way that Toriko looked over, and the way that his shoulders relaxed when he saw Komatsu’s smile, as satisfied as he was after a good meal, but--more, Komatsu thought. Not that that made _sense_ , because food was more or less everything to Toriko, but…

The thought still felt true.

Komatsu couldn’t say he understood--he didn’t understand a lot about Toriko--but it was _good_ , the way that cooking for him was.

\------------

“Chef?” someone--Sawa, Komatsu realized, his right hand, as he blinked away his intense focus on petits fours he was decorating, filling in for the head pastry chef, home with a sick baby and a matching stomach bug of his own.

“Mmm?” Komatsu asked, suddenly worried when he caught the nervous look on Sawa’s face; he wasn’t a man given to overreactions, but his knuckles were white where he squeezed his hands together.

“Toriko is here--”

“Oh! Does he want to arrange another dinner?”

“No, he’s, um--asking for you?”

Komatsu blinked, a little surprised, but still not sure why Sawa looked _worried_.

“...and?” Was Toriko wolf-monster shaped, or covered in blood, or chewing on a raw deer carcass? None of those were _impossible_ , and they’d certainly be upsetting, without context.

Sawa stepped a bit closer. “Are you going to be okay? He’s--”

“A lot,” Komatsu supplied, when Sawa trailed off, apparently trying to find a way to encompass everything that Toriko was.

“I can tell him you’re busy, get him to leave--I don’t know what he wants,” Sawa said, meeting Komatsu’s eyes squarely. “You don’t have to--feel like you have to, because he’s asking for you, or because he’s at the restaurant regularly--”

Komatsu felt his heart warm, and he gave Sawa a quick hug, careful to keep gloved fingers that still had smudges of purple food coloring away from his whites.

“It’s fine,” Komatsu said, _meaning_ it. “I’ll just finish up here--ask him to wait?”

“You _don’t have to_ ,” Sawa repeated. “Even though he spends a fortune on our food, and he’s terrifying.”

Komatsu was uncomfortably aware of the fact that Toriko could hear them talking, doubtlessly, and also that Sawa was looking out for him, and even more than that, the fact that Toriko was a _werewolf_ was in play here, and it was a little hard to keep remembering he couldn’t blurt out “I know he’s a predator and also, technically speaking, a monster, but I also trust him and have him over for dinner regularly even though he’s sometimes literally a giant wolf.”

“Thank you,” Komatsu said, meaning it. “Is he scaring--upsetting anyone?”

“Not on purpose,” Sawa said, dry as a desert, and Komatsu had to give him that. Everyone in the kitchen had seen him eat more than his own body weight in food before. It wasn’t a _forgettable_ sight. “He’s not wearing a shirt, though.”

“I’ll be done in ten minutes, I’ll take my break, and it’s fine. It’s good. We’re--we’re friends,” Komatsu said, and the words felt right, even if they were also incomplete. “I have him over for dinner sometimes. At my apartment.”

Sawa stared.

“...smaller quantities of dinner than he has at the restaurant,” Komatsu clarified. He couldn’t, in all honesty, say _normal_ quantities of dinner.

“Okay,” Sawa said, almost visibly choosing to trust Komatsu, Komatsu’s judgement of people, despite his better instincts. He normally did--Komatsu was closely involved in all their hiring--but Toriko was. Well. A little less human than average.

“If I didn’t trust him, I never would have invited him back to the restaurant,” Komatsu said, and that--that was completely true. “At least a little. I wouldn’t--if I thought he was _dangerous_ , or--unreasonable, I never would have.”

...No one could argue with that, the fact that Komatsu took care of his restaurant and most especially his people with the same devotion and attention to detail he showed his cooking.

“Okay,” Sawa said, and stepped away again. He smiled at Komatsu, shook his head fondly, not quite insubordinate enough to roll his eyes but still managing to imply the gesture. “I’ll go tell him.”

“Thank you,” Komatsu said, turning his attention back to the delicate curls of icing he was piping onto the delicate cakes robed with an ivory-colored glaze.

The last one finished--all almost perfect, but he snagged one of the rejects, where the glaze had set wrong, the cake layers started collapsing slightly to one side. It would taste good, it just wasn’t aesthetically perfect.

And Toriko wouldn’t care either way.

Toriko was in the alley, right through the kitchen’s back door--the same door Komatsu had walked out of and into a werewolf fight, months before. Now, Toriko was leaning half-lazily against the wall, apparently unaware of his surroundings in a way that Komatsu knew was pretense; Toriko was never truly relaxed, especially not out in the open, around a bunch of strangers. Komatsu had learned to see the slight tension to him, the flicker of his attention as he used his hearing and smell to track everything around him, even with his eyes lazily half-hooded.

“Here you go,” Komatsu said, cheerily, and held out the little bite of cake. It really wasn’t more than a few mouthfuls--half a mouthful, if you were Toriko--but the werewolf still lit up like it was the best present he could imagine.

“It’s good,” Toriko said a split-second later, licking a stray smudge off one finger and then smiling brilliantly at Komatsu. “Thanks!”

Komatsu smiled back, just as brilliant. “You’re always welcome,” he said, simply a statement of fact but something that Toriko seemed to like--seemed to _need_ \--to hear. “So--what can I help you with?”

He was definitely aware of the suspicious lack of sound coming from the kitchen behind him, where doubtlessly the entire staff was straining to eavesdrop on their conversation. He knew that Toriko was aware.

“I brought you lunch,” Toriko said, not--not _hesitant_ , but something in his voice sounding like a careful absence of something, the same kind of cautious distance or remove that Toriko had given Komatsu when they’d first met, sometimes.

“Thank you!” Komatsu burst out, a little too loud and fast, because that was--it wasn’t something people _did_ for him, and it was just--good. _Kind_. ...Emotionally intimate, for him, because cooking for people meant so much to him and how he lived, but presumably not for Toriko. “But I’m sorry--we’re too busy to take a lunch today, I’m filling in for one of the pastry chefs…”

“You can still eat lunch,” Toriko said, eyes narrowing in a way that made someone behind Komatsu gasp, an expression that Komatsu had learnt meant an incoming demonstration of pure stubbornness rather than anything alarming. “--oh! No, I just brought lunch for _you_.”

Komatsu hesitated again; Toriko crossed his arms with a certain measure of finality. Before Komatsu could protest that he could take care of himself, and that Toriko didn’t _know_ he hadn’t eaten yet, Toriko lay down his trump card, definitely a little smug.

“ _Have_ you eaten yet?” Toriko demanded, and Komatsu was forced to give it up, because no, he definitely hadn’t.

“No,” Komatsu admitted. “--You didn’t have to, though, but--thank you, so much. I mean it.”

“Don’t skip meals,” Toriko said, and presented Komatsu with a paper bag--one that was definitely large enough to contain a couple meals for someone of Komatsu’s appetite--looking to the side as the bag was handed over.

“Thank you,” Komatsu said again, softly, knowing that Toriko’s ears would have no problem picking up the words. He let his fingers touch against Toriko’s hand for just a second, hesitating and then pulling back before he could follow up with the thankful-comforting-joyful squeeze of his hand that would have been automatic with someone else he was friends with. He didn’t, after all, know how Toriko felt about physical contact, and he didn’t want to make him uncomfortable.

“Sure,” Toriko said. But Komatsu thought he looked pleased.

“Chef!” someone called from behind him--he did need to get back to work, Komatsu realized, he’d need to squeeze in a few minutes later to eat whatever Toriko had brought him--and Komatsu turned away, one last smile aimed behind him at Toriko.

“I like him,” Sawa said, later, watching Komatsu eat noodles in sesame-peanut sauce, accompanied by tangy-bright quick-pickled slices of cucumber, just-barely-blanched spinach threaded through everything. The sous chef looked highly amused.

“Mm?” Komatsu said through a mouthful, confused, asking a silent question; it hadn’t been that much earlier that Sawa had been trying to protect him from Toriko.

“I mean, he must be almost as stubborn as you, if he talked you into a real meal,” Sawa said, happily, with all the just-slightly-vindictive brightness of someone who saw a new potential ally in his ongoing fight to get Komatsu to work a little less hard.

Komatsu sighed, because _really_ , there was no way he was more stubborn than Toriko.

...But it felt good, to have Sawa know about Toriko, for Sawa to at least hesitantly approve of his friendship with Toriko.

-End-


End file.
